Fetish
by lokiness
Summary: A mini Greg-project about his undying love for Grissom's beard. If you read, please review. This is a short set of crackfics. Warning: contains lols
1. Chapter 1

Greg probably should've been doing what he did best – listening to an obscure sub-genre of rock music through his headphones and reading the soft porn magazines that were neatly slotted into his copy of _Forensics Weekly_ – but today he just couldn't concentrate on not doing his work. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the picture of the scantily clad woman just below the diagram of a rare fingerprint disorder, but she just wasn't…

He sighed. What he really could do with was a good _beard. _

Most of Greg's fetishes had been safely hidden away from his co-workers (although he had come scarily close to ridicule when Nick had enquired as to how he knew so much about liquid latex), but he began to fear Grissom was growing suspicious. There was only so many times you could wait outside his office with some fake papers until you could catch a glimpse of that beard. But Greg had learnt how to cover himself.

Suggesting that he needed the photo to update the lab's fingerprint records, he had jumped Grissom in the corridor and snapped the perfect shot – beard and the trademark raised eyebrow that made all the girls swoon all in one shot. He had printed out the photo an hour or so after he'd taken it, after taking a few others to back up his story, and had then proceeded to stash it inside one of his magazines. He opened up the top drawer of his desk.

Amid the papers and manuals that reminded him how to do his job, Greg found the photo and pulled it out. He slotted it inside the porn magazine, which was already slotted into _Forensics Weekly_… An alibi within an alibi. He smiled at the thought, preparing himself to deal with the task ahead. He looked around the lab guiltily, leaning out of his seat slightly to check to see if anyone was walking the corridors.

He was lucky it had been a slow night, 'cause that was one hot beard.


	2. Chapter 2

"Grissom!" Greg leapt out of his lab and skidded across the marble floor of the CSI building. He halted abruptly in front of his supervisor.

Grissom greeted him with a raised eyebrow and an interested-sounding "Hm?"

"Grissom, I need to tell you something. It's important." Greg's breathing was fast, as if panicked, and he was shaking. He spoke quickly, his words spilling out in a single breath. "It's difficult for me, and probably kinda weird for you, but I just have to tell you that..." He took a deep breath and braced himself. Before he could change his mind, his mouth had opened and the words came tumbling out. "Iamtotallydiggingyourbeard."

For a moment, they just stared at each other, neither one sure of what was the right move to make. Grissom's coffee steamed away quietly to itself, and the important papers he held in his arms were temporarily forgotten. Greg looked white, his eyes wide, waiting for the response. The tension for the two men hidden just behind the corner was immense.

"That's, um... That's very nice Greg. But you have work to do." Grissom smiled at him and continued his way down the corridor. As he watched him leave, Greg looked deflated. He sighed, and, with his shoulders hunched and his head hung in shame, he moped his way back to his lab.

The round face and afro belonging to a black CSI appeared from around the corner, shortly followed by his shoulders. A few seconds later, the square face and crew-cut of another CSI appeared above the head of the black man. They were crouched, peering around the wall, action-hero style. The pair watched Greg walk back to his office, dragging his feet as he went.

"Well, you owe me five bucks." Warrick looked smug, and held out his hand to the man above him.

"Awh, damn! I never thought he'd actually _do _it!" Nick mumbled curses under his breath, and sent a hand searching into the pocket of his jeans. He fished around for a few moments, moving aside his keys and spare buttons until he found some change. He dumped the pile of silver into Warrick's out-stretched hand.

"Thank you." Warrick continued with his contented smile as he counted out the money. Nick began to walk away, tip-toeing and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Warrick frowned. "Hey!" He called out, and Nick began to run away from the scene of the crime. "You short-changed me!"


	3. Grissom's Beard and the Pot of Doom

Grissom's beard and the Combined Pot of Doom (with Samuel L Jackson)

Greg twisted in his sheets. Monsters jumping up from under his desk and bright white explosions knocking him dead were one thing, but _this_ dream was something else. He often thought about the man in question, but now his head wouldn't even let him escape this torment, even in his dreams. He turned over. A face was swimming in front of him, but no, not quite a face... More like... A disembodied... Beard. He tried to reach out to touch it but it simply dissolved before him, dissolved and split and reformed as his lab. Oh, not time for work again... He sighed and sat down at his desk, wondering where he'd left the work he was doing. He opened a drawer. Instead of finding the files he expected, he put his hand in and pulled out a pot. Funny, it became two pots. Two pots, tied together. Or joined, or fused, or... He put them back into the drawer frowning in confusion, before opening up the second drawer down. Another pot. Or two pots. Two pots, together. So now... four pots? He pulled open the first drawer again. No pots there. How strange... But never mind, work to do! He swivelled around on his chair, skidding across the laminated floor in it, and stopping himself abruptly on the desk. The microscope wobbled slightly. Picking up his pen he looked down into the eyepiece, but didn't find what he expected. Instead of the blood sample he was meant to be analysing, there was a pot. Two pots. Not again. He pulled his head away from the microscope, shook it violently, and glanced another glance. No pots. Hmm.

"Hey, Warrick, come check this out." Greg called, still looking down onto the slide where the pots had been. Warrick appeared over his shoulder as soon as he had called him.

"What the fucking fuck motherfucker?!" There was something very odd about Warrick today, Greg noted; his hair seemed larger than life, and he was mysteriously built out, like an out-of-work action hero.

"So I reran the test but there were no traces of pots in the vic's blood..." He turned to look up at the CSI, but he wasn't a CSI any more. The not-so-like-Warrick Warrick lifted his arms and removed what was now apparent to be a wig... Samuel L Jackson! Greg leapt out his seat and scrabbled across the room, trying to get away from the figure who was now drawing a well-concealed gun from within his trouser belt. He cocked it. He fired. Greg ducked, raising his hands to protect his face, but nothing hit him. He glanced up, timidly. From the barrel of the gun there was something strange forming, something not quite solid but not like anything else he had ever seen before. Or maybe he had... There was something oddly familiar about it, like he'd seen it somewhere before... On someone... On someone's face...

Suddenly, flying across the room at lightening speed, an army of beards was heading straight towards him! He climbed under a desk without a top, and flailed his arms wildly, but the beards kept coming, brushing his skin and tickling his face with their beardy ways. He was screaming, though the terror of the incident had quite passed; but still, every time one touched him he jumped slightly, letting out a yelp of pleasure and pain, as he waited for the onslaught to stop – even though part of him didn't want it to.

One locked onto its target and stuck fast to his face. He was wearing the beard. That beard. His beard. He reached up to touch it, to make sure if it was really real... His fingers touched its rough bristled edges, and he withdrew his hand sharply. It really was, this was for real. Tentatively he reached his hand up again, stroking down the line of his jaw, the side of that beard, oh... That _beard_... He shivered as he buried his hand into it, his other hand following shortly, and he was on his knees, groaning softly with the ecstasy that came from exploring that beard from every angle. All angles. Just touching it was...

Greg rolled over, throwing himself out of bed and onto the littered floor of his bedroom. He clambered up, shaking himself, and decided against getting back into bed. He had just changed those sheets as well.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: If you get the subtle dig at the writers, you get extra points. (Also, this may turn into a two-parter, with some kind of Nick/Greg, or is that just crazed night time ideas?)

In an unusual and simply temporary moment of forgetting himself, Grissom had fallen asleep. His feet were up on his desk, though he had been careful to clear away any papers so his shoes weren't on them, and he was leaning back in his chair, head tilted, a small snore echoing from the depths of his throat. He had always favoured the night shift, he wasn't much one for the daytime, but recently he really had trouble keeping himself awake. Maybe it was worry about his personal relationships with his staff, or maybe it was that he kept seeing the same murders, spaced conveniently apart, but either way, working graveyard was doing him little good.

Greg's tell-tale blonde spikes and deep brown eyes appeared over the edge of his desk. The coast was clear, as far as he could tell, though he could hardly have noticed Nick lurking in the doorway behind him from his position. He stood up slowly, clenching his teeth and breathing out slowly and deliberately. What an opportunity... He wiped his sweating palms down his lab coat to dry them. He wasn't about to waste this chance on the clammy touch of sweaty hands! He tentatively took a step forward, horribly aware that every footstep was accentuated by the echo of laminate flooring below him. He tiptoed across the room, allowing himself the pleasure of darting forward. He had planned to draw this out as long as possible, but he could take as much time as he liked over the next step. He was standing next to Grissom before he could realise it. His stomach tied itself in knots as he reached out his hand.

Grissom shifted slightly in his chair – Greg froze still, his eyes wide, willing the supervisor not to wake up. A hand clapped itself over a mouth near the doorway, but he was too busy breathing a sigh of relief to notice. The man in front of him was still snoring quietly to himself. Greg took a deep breath in; this was not the time to abandon the plan. His hand was still hovering tantalisingly close to Grissom's delightfully rounded jaw. Greg gritted his teeth against his procrastination and forced his hand forward. He found his fingertips gently stroking down Grissom's cheek. He shivered.

There was a large flash behind him. He spun around, fear and anger rising up from the pit of his stomach, to find he was being faced with an LVPD-issue SLR lens, with a grinning Nick behind it. "Score! Warrick's gonna pay big when he sees this!" Greg let out a strangely primeval growl and charged after Nick as he took flight down the corridor.

Grissom jumped awake. He was pleased to find the lab was in the state of chaos that he had left it.


End file.
